


quite a bit of heroics

by skatzaa



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on That One Post By Alyx, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Puck Works for Malvern Yard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: “Give me a job,” I say.He laughs, an ugly, cruel sound. “Why should I do that?”“Because,” I tell him, my mind racing to think of something, anything that will convince him. I remember the last time I was in Skarmouth, standing in the dusty back room of Fathom & Sons, breathing in the scent of browning butter and listening to the faint sound of Dory Maud and Elizabeth arguing. “You have so much money that the amount owed on this house is practically negligible, I’d bet. And I’ve heard you’re having a difficult time getting your grooms to stay long enough to actually be useful to you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Alyx's fault. I just want to throw that out there right away. Based on [this post](https://notpuckconnolly.tumblr.com/post/171069620699/au-where-puck-gets-a-job-at-malverns-instead-of).
> 
> I have no idea where this will go, or how long it will be. I have done absolutely zero planning for it, so I can make no promises about _when_ it will be done, but I'll get it done. Probably. Not betaed because I wanted a fic to be a surprise to Syd, for once.
> 
> Title from the book, because I'm uncreative and it's getting late.

PUCK

The day after we discover that Gabe has disappeared—with only a poor excuse for a note left behind to reassure us he hasn’t been taken by the _capaill_ —Benjamin Malvern arrives at our doorstep. Finn, thankfully, is out helping Dory Maud with some convoluted task I suspect she made up simply to keep his mind off things. So I am the only one home where there’s a knock at the door.

Benjamin Malvern is the absolute last person I expected to be calling on us at a time like this, but I let him into our little yellow kitchen with its mostly bare cupboards anyway, because Mum raised me to be polite.

When he pulls out the deed to the house—this house, where Finn and I have lived our entire lives, which is one of our last remaining connections to our parents, and now to Gabe as well—I wish Mum hadn’t been quite so successful in getting me to be polite in the first place. Benjamin Malvern does not deserve my courtesy, not when he is threatening us in this way.

We could barely afford to feed ourselves when Gabe was still here, and now—

Finn and I will be lucky to make it through the winter, and that’s without a house payment to worry over as well.

“How much?” I ask Malvern. “How much is still owed?”

He gives me the number, but his expression tells me he knows how staggeringly large I find it to be, and that he expects me to start weeping at any moment.

I’m viciously glad I didn’t offer him any tea, never mind the fact that we don’t have any.

Gabe is gone. Our biscuit tin of coins is getting emptier by the day. My teapots and Finn’s cookies won’t keep us afloat for long.

There’s always the races, but I can’t imagine getting within ten feet of a _capall uisce_ , let alone training on one for the next three weeks on the off chance I could win some money. I know what the races are like, though I’ve never watched them myself, and I know my odds would not be good.

And Dove—I forgot about her, but she’s outside in her little paddock right now, probably hoping for some treats. How will I afford to feed her as well as Finn and myself? And keep the house? It doesn’t seem possible.

Almost as if he is reading my mind, Benjamin Malvern says, “You could sell that mare. She’s sturdy, and might fetch a good—”

“No,” I tell him, firm. His mouth remains open for a moment before he slowly closes it. I wonder how often people dare to interrupt him. “I’ll pay it off some other way.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, Miss Connolly?” he asks, unforgivably imperious. I hate him, more than anyone I’ve ever hated before—it’s the kind of emotion Father Mooneyham preaches against in Mass on Sunday, the kind that will overtake you, if you allow it.

Who is Benjamin Malvern, to come barging into our already precarious lives and threaten to take away our home, our very stability? Yes, he’s a rich man, and a powerful one, but that has only served to make him more monstrous than any _capaill_ he might have locked away in his stables.

That’s when I think of it.

“Give me a job,” I say.

He laughs, an ugly, cruel sound. “Why should I do that?”

“Because,” I tell him, my mind racing to think of something, anything that will convince him. I remember the last time I was in Skarmouth, standing in the dusty back room of Fathom & Sons, breathing in the scent of browning butter and listening to the faint sound of Dory Maud and Elizabeth arguing. “You have so much money that the amount owed on this house is practically negligible, I’d bet. And I’ve heard you’re having a difficult time getting your grooms to stay long enough to actually be useful to you.”

He doesn’t need to know that _I_ only know that because the sisters are horrible gossips.

Malvern is quiet, and I watch him look toward the window. He can see Dove’s paddock from where he’s seated. She may have a bit of a hay belly, but she’s well cared for and her run in is clean.

After I’ve let him contemplate that for a few seconds longer, I say, “I wouldn’t expect a wage. All of it would go to paying off this house.”

“You will be working for me for a very long time, then,” Malvern says, with the ease of a man who has never been indebted to another.

I shrug, trying not to let it show how much the potential of working for him for the rest of my life bothers me. My voice is steady when I say, “I’ll just have to move up quickly, then.”

“That,” Malvern says, rising from the table, “is entirely up to Mr. Kendrick.”

He leaves the deed behind and walks to the door. My heart is in my throat, because he still hasn’t said yes and we can’t lose this house, we _can’t_ —

As he reaches for the knob Malvern glances back over his shoulder.

“You have a deal, Miss Connolly.” His face is grimly satisfied, like he still somehow won. I wonder if we were playing different games this whole time. “You’ll start tomorrow. Please don’t be late.”

And then he lets himself out.

I sit at the table for a long while after that, gripping the edge of my chair’s seat to keep from trembling.

Finn will have to get a job, a real job, in order for us to eat, and I still might have to sell Dove, if we can’t afford her feed. But at least we won’t be sleeping on the streets of Skarmouth, or the back room of Fathom & Sons.

At least we’ll have a chance.

* * *

SEAN

There’s a girl in the main stable.

It’s early, close to an hour before dawn, and most days that means I am the only human awake in the stable. I prefer to feed the _capaill_ before the grooms arrive to help with the regular horses, because it means there’s no one to worry about but myself. And myself, I can be sure of.

But today—the girl. She’s somehow gotten in through the massive wood doors without waking me, which is a feat itself, but she still should not be here.

In the dim light of the overhead bulbs she looks pale and uncertain. She hasn’t heard me come down the stairs, somehow, her attention drawn to the horse in the stall she stands before. It’s Undaunted, one of Malvern’s most successful and prized stallions. I watch her eyes move back in forth, presumably assessing him.

If she’s a horse thief, she’s looking at one of the most valuable horses Malvern owns, so she at least has good taste. But he’s also one of the most recognizable, and any half-competent horse thief would know better than to show up right before the morning feed.

I hope she isn’t a horse thief, because I don’t want to deal with that complication today.

“Who are you?” I ask.

The girl startles badly, her cliff grass hair fanning out behind her as she turns. She looks less uncertain now and more fae. I’m not sure which I prefer less. I step down to the stable floor as she strides forward, hand stuck out before her.

“Kate Connolly,” she says. I take Kate Connolly’s hand and stake it, but before I can ask anything else she adds, “I’m the new groom.”

I’ve heard nothing about a new groom, and I certainly haven’t hired one, as I’ve been busy with the horses and preparing for the _capaill_ to arrive once more.

I squint at her in the low light. The name Connolly sounds familiar, but I can’t place her in my mind, which only confirms that we haven’t met but she is, in fact, an islander.

“Mr. Malvern hired me yesterday,” she says by way of explanation. The thought of Malvern hiring a woman is so profoundly unlike him that I can’t dredge up an appropriate response. Kate Connolly continues, “I start today, but he didn’t give me a time, so I came just before I normally feed my mare.”

Well, I suppose that’s better than most of the mainland men Malvern typically hires, who sleep halfway to noon because they think the fact that Thisby is an island means this will be an easy job.

“Did she get fed?” I ask.

Kate Connolly scrunches her face as though she’s caught the scent of something unpleasant. “Who?”

“Your mare.”

“Oh, Dove,” she says, and I like her better for the way her voice softens. “Yes. My brother will give her some grain this morning before he heads into town.”

There’s no point in replying to that besides making small talk, and neither of us are here for that, so instead I begin walking toward the tack room, my boots clicking quietly on the stone floor. Kate Connolly, wisely, follows me. As I start the first of my morning routines, I tell her, “You’re welcome to bring her here during the day. Anything you use—feed, hay, a stall—will be deducted from your weekly pay.”

From the corner of my eye I see her cheeks flare red. She doesn’t say anything though, so I don’t either.

My mornings normally go something like this: I wake, eat a small breakfast if I have any food in my flat, dress. Check on the horses, feed the _capaill_ , decide which of the sport horses will be raced that day and check to see if any of the broodmares or stallions are scheduled to be bred.

But there’s no blood and no meat, because these mainland grooms are terrified of the few _uisce_ we have right now. It’s not breeding season, and the training schedule can be decided later.

So instead, I give Kate Connolly a tour of the stable, though technically it is not something I am supposed to waste my time with. She’s attentive and engaged, though somewhat wary of the carvings in the corners and on the ceiling. An islander then, but not Old Thisby.

I save Corr for last, because how a groom reacts to him usually tells me how long they will last here. The cocky ones are always the first to leave, and the overly fearful soon follow.

Corr’s stall is at the end of the aisle, and the sun has risen high enough that the faint light through the window makes his coat look like dried blood.

Kate Connolly takes one look at him and goes utterly still.

I cluck, softly, to Corr and he clucks back, swinging his great head around to see me with his good eye. His ears tell me he is interested in us, but the rest of him is calm, relaxed. The October magic has not yet touched him.

She continues to stare. Her knuckles are white from clenching her hands into fists.

She is afraid of him just like all the others, and I cannot say why that disappoints me.

The tour doesn’t last much longer. I hand her off to David Prince and head to the main house, because Malvern wants to discuss the buyers before the ferry delivers them to our shores.

I give her less than three months before she quits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed again, because I like to keep Syd in suspense :p
> 
> This chapter was going to be a short, quick little thing, 1.5k words MAX. That.... did not happen.

PUCK 

I spend the first day mucking stalls until my palms blister, and then I begin the long trudge home. Having Dove to ride would hasten the process, that much is undeniable, but without any real pay, I can’t afford to board her everyday at the yard.

It is nearly past sunset when I get home. The light is on in the kitchen but not the living room, which can only mean one thing: Finn is cooking. 

I give Dove her dinner and some attention for a few minutes, both of which she happily accepts, and then open the door gently, so as not to spook Finn. Finns, as Mum always used to say, are easily-startled creatures.

The first thing I notice is that Finn is at the sink, scrubbing at our one good remaining pot with a vigor that is decidedly un-Finn-like. The second thing I notice is that there are three places set at the table.

It hits me then, in a way it hadn’t when I found Gabe’s farewell note two days ago: our brother is gone, and there’s little chance we’ll ever see him again.

I have to spend a moment fussing over the pile of boots by the door so that Finn, who has turned around and is brandishing a dishrag in my direction, doesn’t see how dangerously close to tears I am. When I straighten up, he has stopped brandishing, his hands now propped up on his hips. The rag is dripping water all over the wooden floor.

“Where have you been?” he asks. His voice is high and shrill, and cracks a little when he speaks, and it reminds me that he’s young and still growing into himself. This makes me cross, because I don’t  _ want _ to be reminded how young he is right now, when we both need to be adults.

“Malvern Yard,” I tell him, and stomp over to the countertop, where the dinner Finn made us waits in our one not-so-good pot. The stomping is not particularly effective, as I’ve already taken off my shoes, but it makes me feel better. Dinner, I discover, is unambitious at best, just beans mixed with the last of the rice, but it  _ is _ dinner that I didn’t have to make, so I go back to the table to retrieve my plate and Finn’s. The one meant for Gabe, I ignore. I don’t stomp this time. Finn goes back to scrubbing the pot. As I begin ladling out food for each of us, I add, because I’m still feeling a little petty, “At  _ work. _ ”

Finn does not dignify that with a reply, so we both make our way back to the table and begin eating in silence. It’s good, considering the fact that it includes beans, and it’s certainly better than anything I would have made. I think Finn has added spices to the mix, ones he probably charmed off some bored housewife, however unwitting the charming may have been on his part.

The empty plate across the table catches the light from overhead, and I wish Finn hadn’t put it out. It makes me feel rather pathetic, that there’s only two of us left to sit at this table, but then again, it isn’t my fault they’re gone. Gabe  _ chose  _ to leave, which upon reflection, almost hurts more than our parents’ death, because at least they had no choice when they were taken from us.

That makes me think of Sean Kendrick, whose name I know only because the groom, Quinn Daly, told me it as he was showing me where they keep all of the things I’ll use most. Sean Kendrick and his blood red  _ capall _ , who is so huge his stall could fit two regular horses, even two of the sleek, well-bred ones the Malvern Yard is so famous for. I’ve never seen a  _ capall _ in a stall before, and it almost made him seem tame enough to forget that he’s just like the ones that killed our parents.

It was obvious that Sean loves him, though I’m not sure how.

The thought of loving a water horse makes my stomach so queasy that I have to stop eating for a moment. To distract myself, I ask Finn, “Did you have any luck finding a job today?”

He takes a bite of his beans and rice and chews with the same methodical precision that he does everything else. There’s nothing to do but wait for him to swallow, because if I try to rush him he’ll just take another bite, and then the process will have to start all over again.

“Dory Maud offered to pay me for helping around the shop,” he says finally. That’s to be expected, as Dory Maud treats us like more like a niece and nephew than anything else, and acts accordingly doting, or what passes as doting for Dory Maud. Elizabeth, on the other hand, treats us like unruly miscreants who tumbled into her shop one day and never truly left, which is probably more accurate. I’m sure she and Dory will have a fight, if they haven’t already, where Elizabeth accusing Dory Maud of giving away their money practically for free.

While I’ve never been afraid of incurring Elizabeth’s wrath in order to make money working for the sisters, the fact remains that they will not pay Finn enough, and he knows it as well as I do. So I simply raise an eyebrow and take a big bite of my dinner, for emphasis.

Finn, thankfully, does not. “Some of the farms are looking for hands, but they’re on the other side of the island.” Not particularly feasible, then, for Finn and his bicycle, as the Morris broke down yesterday and doesn’t seem like it will be fixable, this time around. Maybe we could sell it for parts, if Finn can bear to be parted from it. “And there’s always the fishing boats, but—”

I’m already shaking my head. I won’t allow him out on the sea, especially at this time of year, because I don’t think I could bear it if I lost him in the same way as Mum and Dad. 

“Then that leaves,” Finn’s voice is a little wobbly now and he has to pause to swallow, quite conspicuously. I realize that neither of us have drinks, so I hop up from my seat to get him a glass of water. By the time I’m back, he looks steadier, but his face is still pale. He tries again, “That leaves the butcher’s shop.”

I had forgotten, in the wake of… everything that has happened these past two days, that Gabe was not the only young man to leave the island this fall, and that we were not the only family to lose someone they love. Tommy Falk was one of the others to go, and probably the most surprising, because I had thought that he would live and die on this island just like the rest of us who choose to stay. Then again, I thought the same thing about Gabe, before two days ago.

The other one to disappear at the same time as Gabe and Tommy Falk was Beech Gratton, the butcher’s son, so it only makes sense that Thomas Gratton is in need of a new apprentice.

Finn, however, has hated blood nearly his whole life, ever since that time Mum made the mistake of slaughtering one of the chickens for dinner without realizing that Finn, who was all of four years old at the time, was standing right behind her. I think that might have been right around the time he acquired his obsession with cleanliness as well, but I couldn’t say for sure.

The idea of my little brother working in a butcher’s shop, constantly surrounded by meat and blood, is so horrible that my queasiness from earlier returns with a vengeance. If I could, I would switch places with him, so I was the butcher’s apprentice and he could muck stalls all day, surrounded by the gentle smell of horses and hay, but I can’t. Finn knows as much about horses, despite my best efforts, as he does about butchering, which is to say, nothing at all. Thomas Gratton may be willing to train a new, entirely clueless apprentice, but I can’t imagine that Benjamin Malvern, or Sean Kendrick for that matter, would be as patient.

“What about the hotel?” I ask. With Gabe gone, there’s likely to be an open job, and since Joseph Beringer is still a feck, last I heard, maybe Finn could help there.

Finn shakes his head, saying, “I talked to Beringer, but he already filled the job.”

Which leaves Gratton’s.

I wish I could protect Finn, from everything unpleasant in this world including butcher’s shops and empty stomachs, but the reality is that I’m only his elder by three years.  _ Neither  _ of us should be in this position. But Gabe left us no other option when he decided to leave, especially in the way he did.

Finn needs a job so we can eat. This house won’t do us any good if we waste away.

So I say, as cheerfully as I can manage, which isn’t particularly cheerful right now, “Well, just think of all the things you’ll learn.”

Finn grimaces, and honestly, I don’t blame him.

* * *

SEAN 

The horses are out, finally.

I’ve felt it in my bones since last night, when I finished all of the chores no one else could be bothered to do, or do well, and stood before Corr’s stall. My mind had been occupied with thoughts of the yard, and the new groom Malvern hired, and the endless list of things it is my job to worry about, but my body was alive with the prickle of magic that heralds a new race season. Corr, too, was restless and hungry for the sea.

When I wake in the morning, I do not linger in the stables long enough for either of the Malverns to corner me; instead, I head down the road toward Skarmouth.

If anyone asks later, I am making the trip in order to get more meat for the  _ capaill _ , which does need to be done within the next few days, but really, I want to confirm what my instincts and Corr have already told me. And the best place for that, of course, is the butcher’s shop.

There’s a good crowd of men in the shop when I arrive, but nothing like it will be later on tonight, when word has spread far enough for the riders to know it is once more time to possibly sign their lives away. I don’t prefer the years when the water horses emerge late in the evening, because the first day after is always a liminal one, at once both the start of the training period and the end of the waiting period Some will head to the beach this morning, during low tide, and then sign up tonight, but others won’t begin training until tomorrow. It means that the first day, which is more negotiations and shouting than actual training, will last for more than one day, and it frustrates me.

But I would rather be frustrated over that, than the fact that I am still waiting for the horses to appear, and for October to truly begin, so I don’t complain.

Peg Gratton is behind the counter, and with her is a boy, sixteen at most, with his overly large sweater sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looks as though he is trying to keep any sort of expression from his face, but disgust keeps slipping through his blank mask as Peg shows him how to wrap a roast for their waiting customer. 

I get in line.

The new groom, Kate Connolly, did well yesterday, or at least well enough that no one came to me with any complaints. But it was also only the first day. As the number of buyers snooping around the stables increases throughout the month, so will the pressure from Malvern and the more senior grooms on the younger ones, to do the best job possible. The  _ capaill _ will grow less trustworthy. Knowing October on Thisby, there will be storms, and nothing drives a sea mad water horse inland like a raging storm. Not everyone is prepared for the reality of Thisby in the fall.

Horses will die. So will men.

This is the time of year I live for, but it is also the time when we lose the most grooms. Many of the island families know better than to encourage their sons to join us, because the pay is bad and the hours are worse. Mainlanders, who have never experienced Thisby before they arrive on our shores outside of stories told in pubs over pints, will be terrified by the truth of the island. Many of them will leave on the last of the ferries, for fear of being stuck here all winter.

Kate Connolly, though, is different. Both because she is an islander and a woman, but also because there is a sort of desperation in her gaze that makes me think she is not taking this job simply to add the experience to her resume. 

“Sean?” Peg’s voice draws me from my mind. I look up at her, and see that she’s already looking back. The boy, too. I wonder if she’s had to say my name more than once. “How can we help you today?”

“I need some meat, and blood, for the horses, if you have any,” I tell her. Up close, she looks the same as ever, but the boy is paler than I expected, and drawn in a way that makes him seem older than he is. When I ask for blood, he pales further. 

Peg glances at him out of the corner of her eye and then says, kind, “Finn, love, why don’t you go ask Tom if we have anything ready for Sean Kendrick. He should be in the back, taking stock of the inventory.”

Finn looks relieved to be dismissed, and he trudges away. I watch him for a moment as he goes; his shoulders are stooped like an old man’s.

Peg, too, watches him. When she meets my eye again, her face is pensive.

“What else?” she asks me.

She’s always been sharp, something that I used to resent a lot more when that sharpness was more often than not used against me. Now, I know how much of an ally she can be, with all she hears from her spot behind the counter, and she recognizes that I’m old enough to be making my own choices, even if she does not approve of them. 

“The horses are out?”

She nods.

I sigh. Good. Then, feeling curious in a way that is not typical of me, I nod toward the back door, where Finn disappeared.

“Is he your new apprentice?” I ask her, because of course everyone knows by now, about Tommy Falk and Beech Gratton and their friend, Gabe Connolly, sneaking away to the mainland. Young men and women leave the island all the time, especially in the month leading up to the races, but to have three go at once is slightly more unusual. 

“Yes,” Peg says, and then she lets out a breath that isn’t quite a sigh and braces her hand on the counter. “Poor dear. He and his sister are struggling, since their older brother left. I’ve heard that Malvern threatened to take away their house, which is why he’s here. He’s a heroic little thing, I’ll give him that, but he almost fainted when Tom was talking with him earlier. And he still hasn’t seen the courtyard.”

I want to comment on how she might have  _ heard _ this, as it isn’t something I would want people to be gossiping about in town, if I were the Connollys —

The pieces all tumble into place. Kate Connolly, sister of Gabe Connolly, and presumably Finn as well, working off a life debt that her brother, and their parents before him, left for her.

It is no wonder to me that Malvern was in such a good mood yesterday. He is the type of man who enjoys playing with others, and he likes to have them under his control. He likes to hold hostage something precious, and then watch people work themselves to death trying to earn it back.

I would know. The only reason I am still chained to the Malvern Yard is because he will not allow me to buy Corr.

I nod to Peg Gratton, in thanks for the information, just as Finn arrives back with a package and a bucket, which threatens to overbalance him as he walks. The package is poorly tied, and the bucket a little emptier than I would normally like, but I don’t say anything on the subject. Instead, I simply agree with Peg to settle the account Friday, as usual, and start the walk back to the stables.

There are so many things for me to do, but my mind is torn between longing for the beach, with Corr beneath my saddle and the salt air in our lungs, and thoughts of Kate Connolly, whose situation is more similar to mine than I could have possibly thought.

I don’t like being distracted, especially by a sad story on an island where everyone has a sad story. So I put her from my mind and focus, instead, on the fact that October truly begins today.

I can almost taste the sea on the wind as I walk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. sean kendrick is NOT on my side. also, today while listening to the audiobook i learned that david prince is the head groom, which would technically make him puck's boss. we're gonna ignore that bc im lazy and don't wanna change anything, cool? cool
> 
> shoutout to syd, who betaed this chapter. love you girl <3

PUCK

My second day at the Malvern Yard, Quinn Daly hands me a pitchfork and says, “You’re assigned to this aisle, now. Clean all the stalls except the last one on the left, then come and find me.”

We’re standing in the center aisle of the main stable, and the yard is buzzing around us, despite the fact that it’s not yet mid-morning. Grooms are already leading horses to the round pens, the cross ties, and even the track that Quinn showed me yesterday.  I can’t imagine how the busy pace lasts all day, and yet it must, if yesterday was any indication. 

“Why not the last stall?” I ask, taking the pitchfork.

Daly gives me a look that says quite clearly what he thinks of my mental capacity at this moment. 

“That’s Corr’s stall,” he says.

Well, yes, I know that. But Corr himself isn’t here—Sean Kendrick took him and the two  _ uisce _ mares to the beach, presumably because training has officially started—and I tell Daly that.

“You can’t trust those  _ capaill _ ,” Quinn Daly says, and he sounds, undeniably, like a mainlander with the way his mouth curves around the word. “It’s race season now. You couldn’t make me go in there for all the money in the world.”

Which is an idiotic notion, and I tell him that too. It’s not as though Corr can hurt me when he is in the quite capable hands of Sean Kendrick.

Or so I’ve been told—that Sean Kendrick’s hands are capable. I certainly wouldn’t know myself.

Thankfully, I do  _ not _ tell this part to Daly, so he only shrugs and says, “It’s your funeral, mate.”

His face gets a little funny then, like he’s remembered that I’m a girl and therefore not really one of his mates, so I hurry off to find a wheelbarrow, rather than wait around for his awkward blundering to both start and finish.

At the Malvern Yard, I’ve learned, even the wheelbarrows are top notch, and I get over halfway through the right-hand side of the aisle before I have to dump it in the manure pile. Of course, it helps that these are Malvern horses, who have never been even the slightest bit dirty a day in their lives, and are fed and exercised on a strict schedule. It also makes it a lot easier to keep stalls clean, I imagine, when you have a veritable army to do it for you.

I’ve been mucking stalls messier than these for most of my life, so it’s relaxing, almost easy work. The best part is that it allows me to listen in to the conversations of the other grooms as they go about their business. I’m already the outsider, both as a woman and the newcomer, but I’m also at a disadvantage, because I can’t sleep in the grooms’ quarters. Not that I want to, but it does mean that I do not have access to the conversations they have behind closed doors.

Nonetheless, there is still plenty to learn from the young men who pass by, careless of who can hear them talking. 

The most important thing that I learn over the course of the morning, based on the stories I overhear, is that I should avoid the son of the owner, Matthew Malvern. I know of Mutt Malvern, of course, but I can’t say I’ve ever met him before, as he’s a few years older than me and has an entirely different set of acquaintances.

This plan works very well for approximately an hour, which is the time it takes for me to muck all of the stalls besides Corr’s. I glance down the aisle toward the open doors, the yard visible beyond. There aren’t any horses being groomed right now, and I have no idea where Quinn Daly might have wandered off to, since he didn’t see fit to share that information. I look back to Corr’s stall. It’s not as well-kept as the others, and I can’t tell if it’s because of Corr’s unusual diet or the fact that everyone is, rightfully, afraid of him. Likely, it’s a combination of both.

I don’t want to have anything to do with the  _ capaill _ . But I also remember the dark circles beneath Sean Kendrick’s eyes, and the way his shoulders look like they were resisting the urge to curl in on themselves. How October is only just beginning.

I take a deep breath, and twist open the ornate handle to the stall. Someone has to do this.

That is when Mutt Malvern finds me.

“Are you lost?” he asks me, which might be a friendly or helpful question coming from anyone but him. From Mutt, it’s derisive and meant to be cruel. I grew up with two brothers, though, and it will take more than that to hurt my feelings.

I ignore him, emptying the pitchfork into the wheelbarrow and turning back toward the stall.

Mutt, from what little of him I saw, takes after his father, which is to say, he’s big and boxy and mean-looking. When I fail to amuse him with a reply, he sneers, “Kendrick must have tired of his usual entertainment. Are you to be his new ride, then?”

I feel the back of my neck burn, despite my best efforts to act unaffected by the insinuation. Mutt gives an ugly laugh. 

“Just wait until I tell my father about Kendrick’s new charity case,” he says. If he hopes to get Sean Kendrick in trouble, he is most certainly barking up the wrong tree, since I am not here on  _ anyone’s _ charity, least of all Sean Kendrick’s. 

When I don’t say anything still, he steps into the stall with me, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the shavings. My hand tightens on the pitchfork handle. There’s still no one in this aisle, since all of the horses have been turned out or are being worked, but if I yell loudly enough, someone might hear.

“Can’t you speak?” Mutt asks. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, a big, hulking shape half in shadows despite the light coming in through the small window. “Are you deaf? Dumb?”

I want to give a smart answer, one that will tell him I’m not intimidated by his size or the fact of who his father is. But despite myself, I  _ am _ , because I  _ need _ this job.

“I apologize, Mr. Malvern,” I tell him, in the most respectful voice I can manage. It’s not particularly respectful, truth be told, but it’s better than nothing right now. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Mutt scoffs.

Before he can say anything, a voice comes from the aisle. “What’s going on here?”

We both turn.

It’s an older man who I vaguely recognize, which tells me he’s from Thisby but wasn’t a friend of my parents. He frowns at Mutt and then me, as if we are both at fault here.

“Oh, nothing,” Mutt says, breezily. He looks like he is about to reach out and pat me on the shoulder, so I take a step back. The man frowns some more. “I was just welcoming on our new groom.”

And then he struts right out of the stall without a backward glance. 

The man gives me one final concerned look, and then he too goes.

I go back to mucking out Corr’s stall. Throughout the rest of the day, I can’t shake the impression that someone is watching me. I can’t dwell on it, because there are always more stalls to clean, but I resolve to be more careful. A job won’t do me any good if I am kept from doing it by either paranoia or outside interference.

* * *

SEAN

I return from the first day of training already exhausted and dreading all of the tasks that will remain for me to do at the yard. 

There have been worse first days, but they wouldn’t beat today by much. Corr was hungry for the sea and restless for it, and his mood affected Edana and the bay mare so much I couldn’t ride either. My ribs are not bruised, but they feel as though they are considering it. One man had his leg broken and another was trampled by a pair of fighting  _ capaill _ .

And then there is the fact that, toward the end of the day, I saw Matthew Malvern speaking with Gorry, who has a piebald mare I haven’t seen before this year. She’s going to cause trouble during training, especially if Gorry makes the mistake of selling her to Mutt.

When I get back to the barn, however, I find that Corr’s stall has already been cleaned. I can’t take the time to give him any meat when I still have to deal with the mares, so I add it to my ever growing list of things to do. 

But the mares’ stalls are mucked too, despite the fact that all three of them are assigned to grooms who won’t go near them. This is unavoidable, of course, because none of the grooms will step foot in a  _ capall _ ’s stall in the months leading up to November.

It’s puzzling, to say the least, though I don’t plan on questioning this small kindness. There is enough to do, these days, without making trouble for myself where there’s none.

Just as I am finishing giving the  _ capaill _ their meat for the evening, Malvern sends a groom to fetch me back to the house so that I may entertain his buyers for him. It’s not the smartest move on Malvern’s part, as the only buyers who arrive this early in the month are the ones most interested in buying horses for their own stables, rather than watching the spectacle of training and the races. They would be more flattered if Malvern himself occupied their time, and a flattered mainlander is one more likely to buy three horses instead of two.

At the house, I find an American being enthusiastic in the direction of a rather unenthusiastic mainlander who looks pained, both by the attention and by the mud on his trousers.

“Gentlemen,” I say in greeting. The American turns his enthusiasm on me. The mainlander does not, but he is focused on me instead of his pant legs, which is enough for the moment. “Welcome to the Malvern Yard. My name is Sean Kendrick.”

The American takes my hand before I have fully offered it and pumps it up and down several times. His grin could blind a person, if they weren’t careful. He says, “Mr. Kendrick, I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is George Holly, and this is Robert O’Brien.”

Both important names in the horse world, especially to have traveled so far this early in the season. I can’t imagine why Malvern isn’t dealing with them himself. That isn’t a question I am going to get the answer to at the moment though, so I push it from my mind and concentrate on selling the yard—and myself, by extension—to these men. 

I can’t help but think this is the second tour I have given in two days, when that task should be far below me.

They are both curious and engaged, asking questions about the horses we see during our tour, particularly some of the younger thoroughbreds. I answer the questions as honestly as I can while still trying to make them sound as appealing as possible. George Holly, especially, is inquisitive to the point of giving me a headache.

They are suitably awed by the sight of Corr, though Holly’s awe is tinged with calculating curiosity while O’Brien is more wary.

I have a feeling that George Holly is someone I will have to keep an eye on throughout his stay on Thisby, if only to ensure he doesn’t get caught up in anything too big for him to handle.

The last stop on this tour is the gallops, because I know the grooms will be working the three-year-olds, which are the horses Holly and O’Brien will be most interest in. If the grooms have kept to the schedule—which I expect they haven’t—Sweeter should be on the track right now.

As we draw closer to the fence that lines the track, I see it isn’t Sweeter after all. Instead, it’s Tomato, a rather aptly named chestnut thoroughbred that’s shown potential in the past, but also a tendency to be lazy if you don’t know how to push him.

And folded up tight on his back: Kate Connolly, only recognizable because her red hair has pulled loose from its ponytail. 

Beside me, George Holly shields his eyes from the setting sun with his hand, watching their progress as they pass us. I don’t bother; James Anders, the man who is supposed to be riding Tomato, is leaning against the fence, and I head straight for him.

“Anders,” I say, which makes him jump. When he looks at me, I nod to the track. “What’s going on here?”

“Kate wanted to try riding a horse that’s actually fast,” he tells me. Anders isn’t at all ashamed to be caught slacking off on his job, though his expression is trying to convince me he is. His shoulders, though, are loose and his posture is relaxed, so I don’t believe him.

Rather than rising to his bait, I decide to wait until Kate Connolly has finished exercising Tomato, so that I can get her side of the story. So to Anders, I say, “You’re dismissed for the day.”

I don’t bother looking at his face, so I can’t tell if this relieving or worrying news for him. Either way, I can’t say I care. 

Once he is gone, I finally turn my attention to Kate Connolly.

I know she has her island pony, and that, like most people on Thisby, she has been riding nearly her whole life. But there is a difference between knowing one horse entirely and knowing how to work with any horse you may find beneath your saddle.

Kate Connolly, as I’m discovering, might fall into both categories.

In the time she’s been out here, she seems to have picked up on all of the aspects of the track that present problems to new employees here at the yard, and she’s not letting Tomato get away with any of his bad habits. She’s not the best jockey I’ve ever seen, not by a long shot, but she is also not the worst.

I remember my buyers just as she slows Tomato to a trot and swings him around to come back this way. O’Brien is watching her, but there’s a sort of bored disinterest in his gaze that makes me want to frown. Holly, in contrast, is still smiling, but he’s let the affable vapidness fall out of his expression. Here is the sort of man I would expect to be the head of an internationally famous breeding yard.

Kate Connolly is not at all apologetic when she sees me standing by the gate. Without waiting for me to ask, she says, “James is lazy. He would’ve let Tomato drag him all over the island, at the rate they were going. So I told him I could do better.”

She doesn’t try to justify herself beyond that, and I can’t find it in myself to be mad, because Anders  _ is _ lazy. He’s another of the mainland boys who came to Thisby at the urging of his rich parents, and is soon in for a rude awakening about the reality of the island. 

Kate Connolly looks at me then. Her hair is a mess around her face, and Tomato dances beneath her. She asks, “Did you name this poor horse Tomato?”

Holly laughs, and I watch as her cheeks go red. Despite her blush, she’s still glaring at me. 

“I did,” I tell her, raising my voice so she can hear me above the wind. I don’t tell her why, because I can’t exactly recall the chain of events that led me to pick such a mundane name. It was probably chosen because it was better than whatever Malvern had come up with, but I can’t say that in front of Malvern’s buyers.

O’Brien is starting to look impatient and bored, neither of which are emotions I want him to be feeling at the moment, so I nod to Kate Connolly and begin herding O’Brien and Holly back towards the house. I am going to have to reassess my first impression of her, because I have a feeling that riding horses is not the only thing she’s done today she wasn’t meant to, but that will have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i make no promises about update times (full time work AND full time school is a BITCH), but i'll do my best.
> 
> comments and kudos sustain me <3
> 
> Read on,  
> Skats


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